


Let Me Hear You

by el3anorrigby



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Illya can't resist him, M/M, Smut, Solo is a tease, maybe a little, no real plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-19 14:25:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13125573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: Did you enjoy the show, Peril?





	1. Lured

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Atanau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atanau/gifts).



> This fic is based on [THIS](https://el3anorrigbyworld.tumblr.com/post/168735825134/atanau-art-did-you-enjoy-the-show-peril-so) hot tumblr entry by Atanau. 
> 
> I had posted the ficlet in my ['The Story of Illya and Napoleon'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8260003/chapters/29958057) entry, but as someone had suggested I do a follow-up, I've decided to repost the entire story in one separate fic of its own together with the companion chapter. 
> 
> Hope you'll like it!

Illya’s bored, ready to go to bed. Gaby is out on surveillance and Napoleon, well the Cowboy is in his own room. Illya knows this because all those bugs he’d planted without the American’s knowledge gives him a good idea enough on his partner’s whereabouts. It’s not like knowing where Napoleon is all the time is of worldly importance, but Illya thinks it is necessary, though he can’t really explain it if anyone were to ask him why.

Suddenly curious about what Napoleon is up to, he reaches over for his radio from under his bed, turns it on, then holds it close to his ear. His eyes instantly widen upon hearing soft gasping breaths and then what sounds like an unbidden little moan.

Is Napoleon really...Illya shakes his head, can’t bear to finish the thoughts in his head. The American has indeed no shame. But then Illya can’t put the radio away. He wants to, and he knows he really should, but when his name is unmistakably heard seconds later, Illya completely freezes.

“God, Illya…”

Illya’s breath catches in his throat. And when he hears his name again, sounding almost sinful dripping from Napoleon’s mouth, he almost drops the radio in his hands. And then what follows; Napoleon’s moans of breathless pleasure, gasps and groans and... _fuck_ , he’s uttering his name again, even louder, asking him to go faster. _Fuck!_

Illya's lips go dry as he envisions Napoleon on his bed, doing what he thinks he is doing, and the images he sees in his head has him trembling, hands shaking, heart beating a little faster. Is Napoleon doing this on purpose to get his attention? Does he know Illya’s listening in right at that moment?

“ _Nhhh_...Illya, please..."

 _God_ , this is so wrong, Illya thinks. He shouldn’t be doing this, listening to his insufferable partner masturbate to some fantasy of him? But Napoleon’s moaning and groaning are so terribly sexy and magnetic, Illya suddenly wishes he’s there in Napoleon’s room. And he wishes it’s his hand that’s doing the pleasuring. Why let Napoleon imagine when he could have the real thing wrap around his cock? And Illya could do a lot more if Napoleon lets him. Illya is letting his own imagination run wild and it’s turning him on, making him hot. He sees Napoleon underneath him, writhing on his back, splayed out for him to touch. To taste. Illya bites his lip, closes his eyes. And moans. He leans back against his pillows, radio at his side with Napoleon’s moans still filling his ears, and just as he’s about to touch himself, one especially lewd moan fills his ear.

“Illya, please, if you’re listening…”

Illya could see Napoleon so clearly, on his arched back, desperate.

“Peril. Need you. Now.”

Illya's heart stops. Napoleon’s calling out to him. So, he knows? Illya curses out loud. And then he’s scrambling off his ass and within the next few minutes he’s already at the foot of Napoleon’s bed and what he sees is ten folds better than what he’d imagined.

“You’ve come.”

Illya swallows hard. Napoleon had done everything on purpose but Illya doesn’t care if he had fallen for his trap. Now all he wants is to pin him down. And take him hard.

“Did you like the show I’d put for you?” Napoleon smiles invitingly, pulling Illya out of his thoughts. Illya only smirks as he crawls his way on top of Napoleon, thinking ‘you’ll get so much more than what you’d asked for, Cowboy’ and Napoleon gasps as Illya gives him a firm squeeze.


	2. Let Me Hear You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let the Cowboy learn his lesson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the companion chapter.

Illya settles against Napoleon properly, hands pinning his wrists on either side of his head, knees framing his hips, not doing anything for torturous long moments until Napoleon jerks up, his drooling cock pressing up against Illya’s clothed stomach for just a second. The friction draws a low moan from Napoleon’s throat.

“Peril, you need to strip, damn it.”

“Not about me this time,” Illya denies him. “Now is about how I teach you a lesson.”

Napoleon shudders and when Illya still does nothing, he pleads.

“Get to the point then,” Napoleon snarls into his ear, his breath coming in short huffs, and Illya can tell he’s close, very close.

“Ask me nicely.”

“Illya…please!”

Setting aside a brief moment to regret he’d indeed fallen for Napoleon’s easy trap, Illya can’t think of a good enough reason to do anything else after hearing that pleading voice other than to kiss him. So he does.

The kiss takes both their breaths away and when they pull apart, Napoleon realises the dynamics of the game has completely changed. He’d never planned it to be this intimate although he’d be lying to say he’d never dreamed of kissing the big Russian.

“You kissed me,” he murmurs as if to ascertain that is what Illya wants as well, that Illya’s brain is still in control of his actions.

“Yes,” Illya breathes and Napoleon doesn’t even wait for him to say anything else, just steals the word right from his mouth, leaning up to kiss him again. Napoleon’s stubble rasps against Illya’s cheek as his lips explore the length of the Russian’s jawline down to his ear, and next his tongue is wet and heavy once again in Illya’s mouth. While he’s not exactly coherent, the sounds escaping from as deep down as his chest flutters between them. And it tells Illya what words aren’t doing at the moment.

“Touch me again,” Napoleon commands breathlessly when he’s able to, but Ilya won’t let Napoleon enjoy the taste of victory, won’t grant him the satisfaction. Not just yet. He will take his time despite his blood boiling and his heart racing. 

Let the Cowboy learn his lesson.

“I see your move, Solo. You played me earlier. You have no right to ask things from me now,” he murmurs lowly against Napoleon’s heated neck, sees his Adam’s apple bobbing under his stubbly skin. Honestly, it’s hard for Illya to say anything else, to think tactics with Napoleon writhing underneath him like that, but he is determined to torture the man at his own game. Napoleon, on the other hand, won’t back down easily either, so he antes up his act, just moans provocatively, that sinful mouth letting out sounds that make the hair at the back of Illya’s neck prickle and all his blood rushing south where it matters. Napoleon knows he _is_ good at this, and he _will_ get what he wants by the time the night is over. 

“But you _want_ this. Because if you don’t, you wouldn’t be here,” Napoleon corners his partner, and Illya cannot deny his words. 

He hums a laugh. Napoleon is spot on. He wants the damn man, there is no denying it now, and there they are right at that moment, still challenging the other, though he resents that it had been him who had caved in first. And he is about to cave in again. Muttering a silent curse, Illya then leans down, starts scattering a slow series of open-mouthed kisses up the curve of Napoleon’s neck, his shoulders, and then down every inch of his body, drinking in those furtive sounds of want, the sight of Napoleon’s hands trembling as he strains not to break free from Illya’s tight hold on him. He spreads his thighs just a little more as Illya goes lower, and when Illya looks up, Napoleon is biting his lower lip, trying to suppress a moan. He waits for them to lock eyes before he finally takes Napoleon’s cock into his mouth. It’s hot and wet and hard – and Napoleon sucks in a gasp through his teeth, shivering under Illya’s hands, the whole of him practically vibrating with tension as Illya slips further down his cock. His hips jerk upward barely even a fraction before Illya pushes him down, working on relaxing his throat until his nose brushes the tangle of dark curls trailing up towards Napoleon’s stomach.

“P-Peril,” Napoleon keens, apparently at a loss for words past that endearing nickname, falls silent but for those delicious gasps and moans stifled behind one clenched fist after Illya had let go of his grip on his wrists.

Why is Napoleon holding back when previously he had been damn determined to let Illya hear him? And after what he’d heard earlier through the radio, Illya wants more of those sounds, wants to hear his screams of pleasure. Unsatisfied, Ilya pulls off of Napoleon with a soft plop, and lifts himself up, keeping his arm outstretched so that he can still stroke his partner while crawling up his body. 

It’s all the more surprising that now, looking down at Napoleon, he feels an irrational kind of want for him, of which something he can’t explain, it is almost painful. Those particular lips, those eyes with pupils blown wide, and that goddamn smile that makes his insides tighten. Unable to stand it any longer, he draws Napoleon towards himself, nips at his lips, lets Napoleon taste the tongue that had teased him not a second ago. He kisses him like a man drowning and when they break apart for air, Illya whispers, “let me hear you.”

Illya enunciates his every word with a squeeze to Napoleon’s cock, just for the cut-off gasp that Napoleon sucks in, the furtive little whines, the way his eyelids flutter as he struggles to keep his eyes open, watching Illya with a desperation the Russian has never seen before. When Illya’s hand grips him tighter, Napoleon whimpers.

“But that’s what you’ve been doing before, haven’t you?” he says, his back arching, moans louder when Illya doesn’t relent his hold, "h-hearing me all night, and maybe, just maybe, _ahh!_ that wasn’t the first time you’d heard me.”

Another low moan spills past his lips, a little louder, a little closer to what Illya really wants, making Illya smile against Napoleon’s parted lips. 

“Maybe. But I’ll never be satisfied anymore by just hearing you.”

Napoleon’s heart skips a few beats upon hearing that admission. Amidst the haze in his brain, he takes a long moment to look at Illya, on his knees hovering above him, face flushed as well with a hand palming his own cock through his pants. God, it’s a sight Napoleon thought he would never see. It’s been some time since he has been in a position like this with anyone that matters. And he realises now that Illya certainly matters.

“Then do something about it,” he challenges the Russian. Illya, never one to back down from a dare, starts stroking him fervidly, shifts so he can nip at Napoleon’s earlobe at the same time, his teeth scraping the tender skin there then down to the perfect line of his jaw, neck and bared throat. 

“Let me hear you,” Illya repeats his earlier command as he moves down Napoleon’s body again, continues to stroke him, takes his time drawing his tongue across the shifting planes of the American’s stomach when Napoleon helpfully arches up.

“ _Nhhh_ ,” Napoleon mutters unintelligently, bucking up into Illya’s fist. Illya looks up at him through his eyelashes and drinks in the sight; his flushed cheeks, his parted lips, the desperation in those beautiful blue eyes. Napoleon’s whole existence is right there for him to marvel at, the man who has broken his remarkable self-control.

Illya’s heart hammers against his chest.

“I want to hear you,” he orders.

Napoleon gives a pleading whimper, shaking under Illya’s touch. And when Illya moves back between his thighs, draws his mouth again over Napoleon’s cock, Napoleon lets out that glorious moan Illya has been waiting for. He’s not holding back now and neither is Illya. His eyes fall shut as Napoleon rolls his hips up into his mouth, moaning around him at every stroke of his skilful tongue.

“Illya, _please_ , Illya…” 

Napoleon is an incoherent mess and Illya opens his eyes again just in time to see Napoleon’s own flutter closed, lips parted on a shuddering shout that tries to be Illya’s name as his back arches, and he finally comes hard in his mouth and Illya takes and takes and takes what is given until Napoleon goes utterly boneless.

~Epilogue~

 

“I wasn’t expecting that,” Napoleon murmurs in Illya’s ear. “Never thought that it’d be so… that we could actually…” he pauses, takes in a breath thinking the end of his stuttering sentence but finds he’s unable to finish what he wants to say. 

Illya is slumped over him, spent as well after Napoleon had returned the favour, lazily nuzzling his jaw and neck, and Napoleon’s somewhat grateful the Russian had not left and is still there with him. He is embracing Napoleon like he’s his precious love, someone that he cherishes with all his heart, and the idea suddenly excites and scares Napoleon at the same time. 

“Illya, talk to me. What are you thinking?” 

“I think that you did not think through your plan well enough,” Illya answers, making Napoleon chuckle.

“Maybe.”

“Do you regret this?”

“No. Never.”

“What did you really think will happen after tonight, Cowboy?”

Eventually, Illya raises himself up onto one elbow to look at Napoleon. And Napoleon’s heart jolts at the sight of him. The Russian is beautiful with his tousled hair and flushed cheeks, and if there are better words to describe him at the moment, Napoleon is at a loss. Instinctively, he reaches up to touch lightly at the scar on his temple, skims his fingers there while his eyes never leave Illya’s.

“Maybe I’ve been meaning for this to happen. Maybe I’ve wanted this from the start? Who knows?”

“ _You_ know.”

The recognition in Napoleon’s eyes tells Illya he is right, and rejoicing the fact and accepting his own feelings as well as understanding his need to know where Napoleon is all the time, Illya leans down to kiss him. Hard. Kisses him hard and filthy and wet until Napoleon is hot and shuddery all over again, melting. Whatever intentions he might have had at the start of the night, it’s completely thrown out the window. If he had thought he was the composed one of the two, he’s wrong. Because he has definitely lost to Illya. And now he yearns for Illya to break him. Over and over again.

 

-fin-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't be mad that you're reading smut for Xmas. :P but I hope it's fun for you nevertheless!  
> Love you all! xxx


End file.
